Do you really think I want to die?
by shoppe69
Summary: Super sleuth meets super old immortal...
1. Chapter 1

**Sooo... I've re-read my own story and decided to modify it a bit. Maybe I'll even give it a few more chapters.**

 **Enjoy reading!**

Chapter 1 You have no idea what you've done…

Thick fog drifted through the streets and created tiny drops of water on his coat. They slowly seeped through the fabric and soon the layers felt cold and clammy. City sounds were muffled by the thick murk London had been under for days now and especially here, near the River Thamse, it was an arduous task to follow someone in this weather. Always keeping enough distance to stay undetected, but not losing sight of the person.

Sherlock Holmes was stalking a friend. No, he would not call it stalking. Spying on him was rather a necessity to calm the recent uproar of his mind. The other man had a secret and had kept it hidden by lying to him.

Sherlock wasn't one to be bothered by a secret but continuous lying simply offended him. Although his friend knew how secretive Sherlock could be, he had chosen not to trust him with something that kept him wandering the nightly streets of London at times. And _THAT_ bothered him.

And what odd places his friend visited! Derelict and abandoned buildings, bridges and piers seemed his favorite places to meet strangers at night. Sherlock never got close enough to hear what they were talking about, though. He had played this game three times before and tonight the man had chosen an abandoned industrial complex near Thamse Barrier Park.

Sherlock's chase had almost ended abruptly when his friend had suddenly exited the Docklands Railway train at West Silvertown station. The detective had to be _very_ creative in order to stay hidden due to the lack of passengers at that time of night.

Not sure if he had been detected, he quietly kept following his friend at quite the distance, sometimes only being guided by his hearing. Now Sherlock carefully crept along the wall of an old building until he could peek around the corner.

There he saw his friend and two other men standing in the open space behind the old factory. The ground was covered with dirt and rubble as well as a sound amount of pioneer plants. It must have been deserted for many years.

To his utter surprise, the two men held swords in their hands! After the initial shock, he couldn't contain his curiosity anymore and advanced as far as he dared, always keeping in the shadows, until he was able to eavesdrop.

"Glad you could make it. Tom here thought you would run, though." The man who had just spoken was very tall, with blonde hair and of a bulky build. He carried his sword casually flung over one shoulder and pointed a thumb to his companion. The second man was as tall as the first one, but with a more slender outline. His hands rested nonchalantly on the elegant hilt of a French cavalry sabre. The blade gleamed in a deadly silver.

"Sometimes running is futile. I don't suppose your friend here", Sherlock's friend pointed to the man with the sabre, "will just be watching, no?"

Sherlock got the impression that the voice he thought he knew so well belonged to a different person. It sounded cold blooded and eerily calm in the face of two armed opponents.

"Now, where's the fun in one on one, hm? I really think those rules are for cowards who dare not taking on two adversaries at once. Are _you_ a coward?" The blond guy lifted the sword off his shoulder and weighed it in both hands. It was a beautifully crafted medieval Ivanhoe sword. Sherlock congratulated himself for his unprecedented interest in trivia.

Sherlock's friend just shrugged. "Let's get it over and done with." He reached into the inside of his coat. "I have a breakfast appointment to keep."

And with these words he drew a short sword out of his coat and swung it once. The Spanish gladius – as Sherlock couldn't fail to note - zinged as it cut through the damp air. All three men fell into a fighting stance and started circling each other.

Sherlock was baffled. His friend intended to _fight_ – with a _sword_? Against all odds?

He couldn't help watching with morbid fascination as the first blows fell and marveled at how proficient all three men moved. And suddenly it dawned on him that this was not some bloody sports game.

This was not a show, no. It was a real fight to death! Blow after blow his friend parried with incomparable grace and riposted with great cunning.

He has fought like this before, Sherlock realized, but why? The detective couldn't for the _life_ of him fathom why an academic would engage in a deadly sword fight!

A sudden cry of pain pulled him from his reverie. His friend had received a rather deep cut on his upper thigh. Although no major blood vessel had been hit, the wound clearly impeded him. However, his attacker didn't hold back.

When his friend stumbled to his knees, Sherlock had enough. He decided to take action and pulled a gun from the pocket of his coat. "There can only be one!" the attacker yelled and swung his Ivanhoe way up high above the head of Sherlock's friend.

"Stop it!" Sherlock jumped out of hiding and aimed at the two strangers.

"No! You _cannot_ interfere!" they shouted. Sherlock's friend raised his head and glared at him.

Sherlock cocked his head. "Oh, but I will", he answered with dry sarcasm and as the fighter with the Ivanhoe charged toward him, he shot him right in the heart.

"William!" the other one screamed in fury and Sherlock had just about time to grab the now abandoned medieval sword in order to defend himself.

"Watch out!" Sherlock's friend yelled and tried to get back to his feet, but the injured leg failed the man.

Seeing that his friend was still down, the detective launched himself into a furious sword fight. All the sword fight and fencing lessons he had collected either in his teenage years or later were paying off now.

After a while he managed to escape a particularly risky maneuver of his opponent by countering with a dirty trick he had learned on the streets years ago. That finally put him in the position to land a lethal stab right into the heart.

The man crumpled to the ground, deadly wounded with the Ivanhoe still in his chest, and closed his eyes. Sherlock was sweating, his arm was shaking badly from the unusual exertion. Coming down from his adrenalin high he exhaled slowly a couple of times and then staggered backwards away from the corpse.

A groan behind him made him jump and he turned around. The man he had shot in the heart started to move again!

"Sherlock!" His friend was back on his feet and called to him. "Sherlock! Are you okay?" He grabbed the detective by the shoulders and shook him.

Finally, bright blue-green eyes met hazel-green ones. Sherlock still gasped for air. "Ben! What about…", he started and stared at the now non-existent thigh wound, but he didn't get any further.

"Listen, whatever happens now – stay away! Got it?" The detective got pushed towards his former hiding spot and if looks could kill, Sherlock would've dropped dead by now.

"You have _no_ idea what you've done, you fool!" his friend hissed at him and then turned around to meet the revived fighter.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 I really hate quickenings…

The revived fighter let a plaintive cry at the sight of his dead comrade before he directed his vengeful gaze towards Sherlock and his friend. "You – you beat my student!" He pointed his sword towards them. "You both are dead men walking", he growled and advanced slowly.

Sherlock's friend let his sword swing gracefully through the air. "Then you should've _taught_ him better", he sneered.

There it was again, this cold and detached voice Sherlock had trouble connecting with his friend who now engaged in a furious battle.

Swords clashed, the metal sound ringing across the open space. Both men were experienced fighters, and none of them was willing to yield. After a few minutes it was clear that Sherlock's friend had the upper hand. He worked his blade with deadly precision and his eyes held a frighteningly dark gleam.

Finally, he cut his opponent diagonally across the back of the legs right after ducking away from a heavy blow. The man fell to his knees, screaming in pain.

Sherlock held his breath. His friend raised his sword, held Sherlock's gaze and decapitated the other man with a final blow.

The detective stood there, frozen in shock, trying to process what he had just witnessed. The man he had come to know as Dr. Benjamin Pierce had just killed a man in cold blood…

Sherlock shook his head and blinked a couple of times, but it didn't help much.

"Get down!" Pierce managed to yell before the show started.

Glowing mist rose from the dead body and encircled the man who now dropped his sword and wrapped his arms around his middle while groaning in pain.

Crackling with electricity the mist swirled higher and higher, wind came out of nowhere and the whole vortex of wind, light and mist engulfed Dr. Benjamin Pierce aka Methos, the world's oldest immortal.

I really, really hate quickenings! Methos thought briefly before lightning streaks erupted inside the vortex and hit the old one over and over again. He screamed and broke to his knees, unable to run away.

" **Ben!** " Sherlock shouted in horror, but he couldn't get any closer. The lightning storm hit the building behind him and shattered glass rained down on him while he covered himself with his sturdy coat.

After a few minutes, the electric storm died down again and left a shaken detective cowering behind a heap of debris and a groaning immortal next to a corpse in the middle of dissolving vapour.

Sherlock finally jumped up and shook dust and crumbs of stone and glass out of his hair. Then he ran towards his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 I'm outta here…

" **BEN!** " he shouted. "Ben, are you okay?" Sherlock dropped to his knees next to him and wanted to check his friend, but the man he knew as Benjamin Pierce pushed his hand away.

" **LEAVE ME ALONE!** " Methos shouted.

"No, you've been hit…" Sherlock insisted but Methos staggered to his feet and moved away from him.

"Shut up!" Methos snarled. He rubbed his face and picked up his sword. "Stupid, stupid, _STUPID_!" he roared and kicked the dirt on the ground, nearly shaking with rage.

He was so mad at Sherlock for interfering, for following him out here and witnessing what should've remained a secret. The ramifications of this breach into the mortal world were clear for Methos, albeit not for Sherlock.

The old one spun around and pointed his gladius towards Sherlock. "You just _had_ to interfere, didn't you?" He shoved the tip of the blade closer to Sherlock's throat with a mean glare.

The detective gulped involuntarily at the sight of blood on the gleaming blade. "I saved your life", he replied sternly, but without fear.

Methos let a sob-like laugh and shook his head. The last thing he needed was anothr boyscout! "Let's try this: Why did you follow me?" he growled.

Sherlock shrugged as if to get rid of some of the tension. "You obviously had a secret, something you considered important enough to lie to me", the detective replied with chagrin. "And I _hate_ being lied to."

Methos's eyes narrowed in surprise and he lowered his sword. "With all your wit, did it _never_ occurr to you that I might have a good reason for _keeping_ it secret?"

The annoyance on Sherlock's face grew. "What reason could that be? Joining an obscure fight club?" Sherlock sensed he might regain ground and advanced on Methos.

"I _didn't_ know what was going on and when you started admiring the ground, I simply took action to prevent explaining a third corpse!" He pushed Methos by the shoulders.

"I was absolutely capable of handling them myself", the ancient one retorted angrily and pushed back.

"Of course, plainly evident", Sherlock scoffed angrily. "Did you really expect me to walk away, Benjamin? You _should_ know me better by now!"

The men had reached the wall of the old building and the detective pinned his friend to it by his shoulders. He was really upset now.

Methos struggled briefly. „Bullshit! You think I _wanted_ to die?" Methos snarled.

"Not sure. Who starts a sword fight in the middle of nowhere, at night, and without backup, hm? Sounds suicidal enough to me."

Light blue-green eyes glared at him with barely concealed fury.

"That's the way it's _supposed_ to be!" the ancient one hissed and effortlessly slipped out of Sherlock's hold.

"We fight, one on one, and in the end…" he pointed towards the decapitated body with a shrug.

Sherlock's eyes widened with unconcealed shock.

And then, he couldn't help it, he had to spill his deductions.

"So, this wasn't the first time you did this. From how you wield the gladius Hispaniensis I suppose you are trained on killing with it. And so were the others. Since it takes a long time to develop this kind of expertise, I suppose Benjamin Pierce is neither your real identity nor do you look your real age. Your wounds heal extremely fast, your leg should still fail you considering the apparent depth of the cut. What I do not understand – yet – is the how and why."

Methos' lips twitched involuntarily, but the situation was too messy for jokes. He knew the watchers were either already around the corner or approaching fast. He had to get out of there.

"Now is not the time for further explanations – we need to get going!" He turned around, cleaned his sword haphazardly on some bushels of grass and tucked it into his trench coat.

Before Methos could walk away, Sherlock grabbed him by the arms and wrestled the old one back to the wall. "Why did you not trust me with this?" he demanded.

"I couldn't!" Methos struggled against the hold but the fight had taken its toll on him. All he wanted was to go home.

"No! You _lied_ to me, Benjamin, more than once, and I want to understand why!" Sherlock tightened his grip.

A harsh sob tore from Methos' throat while the aftermath of the other immortal's quickening still burned inside him and made his guts twitch with unreleased tension. The betrayal of his friend's trust hung heavy in the air between them.

After all the time he had spent with Sherlock, Methos knew that if he wanted to keep this friendship intact, he had to give the man _something_. Of course, not necessarily all of it.

"I am immortal, Sherlock, and sometimes I get challenged for my head. There, that's the secret!" Methos sighed wearily and averted his hazel eyes, trying to hide what was really going on inside him.

"What's the difference to you?" he nearly whispered.

Sherlock grabbed his chin and forced him to look up again. Methos noticed that anger, wonder, curiosity and disappointment all swirled in Sherlock's eyes at once.

"The difference is that I would've found a way to help you, but no! You _had_ to make a _bloody_ mess out of it!" The detective let go of him and stepped back.

"Well, that's it then now, isn't it? I betrayed your trust, so I'll better leave", Methos retorted briskly and brushed some invisible dust off his coat, drawing the fabric tighter around his lean frame.

The look in Sherlock's eyes was all too familiar for the ancient one.

Sherlock felt the hair on his neck rise at these words. He hadn't just involuntarily risked his life for having their friendship coming to an end like this, and Benjamin's words had just sounded like good-bye!

"No! After what I've been through tonight, don't you dare pull a disappearing act on me!" He gave the immortal a shove and pushed him once more against the wall.

"I didn't force you to fight, and if I _wanted_ to disappear you'd never find me again, not in your lifetime!" Methos sneered.

He was slowly losing his temper. How dared this youngling even _think_ that he could order him around?

"You forget who I am, Benjamin", Sherlock retorted, his voice suddenly icily.

The world's oldest immortal snorted derisively. "You are _what_? The famous consulting detective, the ingenious Sherlock Holmes? I've got centuries of experience on you - boy", he drawled menacingly.

"Is that supposed to drive me away? Usually, _I_ am the one pissing off people", Sherlock retorted nearly breathless, his brain almost short-circuiting with the unexpected load of information. Centuries?

Methos straightened himself and brushed past him. The young one had no idea what he had just done. "Forget I said anything - I'm outta here", he spat.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Your place or mine?

Sherlock panicked – he couldn't let Benjamin run away! He grabbed his arm and propelled the man around, back flat on the wall again.

"What's it with you and this wall? Let me go!" Methos growled, but Sherlock pressed his body flush against the man.

He had thought about this for long time, and now his last opportunity to act on it had come. Or so he thought.

Catching Methos' face in his hands, he kissed him roughly.

"Tell me you still want to disappear, Ben", he whispered hoarsely after breaking the kiss for a moment.

The flushed face before him spoke volumes, but Methos just wouldn't give in.

"That's not the point", he growled and tried to push Sherlock away, but the detective would have none of that and kissed him again, hard, pouring all of his frustration and desperation into the kiss.

Tongues clashed in a breathless battle, fighting for dominance until Sherlock felt the man's body tension changing into something else. He softened the kiss, let his lips caress the others softly, melting his body to the other's frame and when Ben's hands reached up and tangled in his hair while pushing one knee between his thighs, he knew he had won – at least for now.

The detective's hands roamed the lithe body before him, feeling the hard muscle under his fingertips after finding a way underneath the other's shirt. Lips were abandoned and Sherlock reveled in Methos' passionate moans when he sucked a spot behind his right ear.

"Gods…, yesss", he heard and this only fueled his own desire even more. Groin grinding against groin, wild fumbling of hands – it only ended when Sherlock pulled away.

"Your place or mine?" he gasped, pupils dilated, pulse running crazy and he was short on breath.

Equally dilated pupils met his gaze. "Mine. I'm not keen on meeting that funny little doctor of yours again."

Methos felt his need for physical contact overriding his flight instinct and even though he knew this was driven by the quickening he was willing to give in.

Sherlock snorted a laugh and pulled Methos away from the wall before he helped him straighten out his clothes. "Cab or train?"

"Cab, if you can get one," Methos replied. He was starting to feel tired to the bone. Maybe he was really getting too old.

Together they walked away from the scene and left the compound. Sherlock thought it an eerie silence compared to his usual experiences with crime scenes. "What about the bodies?" he asked.

"They will be taken care of." Methos' taciturn answer silenced Sherlock for a while.

The detective ordered a cab via an app while they walked towards the train station. When the cab arrived, the two men got in and Sherlock's friend gave his address to the driver.

Neither man spoke during their ride, both of them obviously busy with their own thoughts, but at some point Sherlock reached over and laced his fingers with Methos'.

The ancient one looked down on their hands and a small smile played around the corners of his mouth. So much for the sociopath, he thought fondly and returned the sentiment with a soft squeeze of his hand.

For the first time since he'd known Sherlock, Methos honestly wished he could trust the other man with his true identity, but then he shooed the thought away. It was simply not safe for a mortal.

He wanted to stay in the younger one's life as long as possible, but at the same time he felt the strong need to keep the man safe and away from his world. Well, the latter was probably impossible now, but he could still try to control the type of information Sherlock received about him.

The oldest immortal was not keen on repeating something like the disaster with Duncan MacLeod because of Bordeaux and the Horsemen.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's mind worked on the bits of information and drew deductions about the man next to him. He noticed suddenly that at some point he had unconsciously gripped the man's hand, and was about to let go, but Benjamin returned the grip with a small smile around his lips.

Never before have I been so attracted to another man, Sherlock thought, and yet it does not scare me like I know it should. Why is that?

His brain wielded all deductions it had made about Benjamin – if that was his real name.

A man who can't die… at least, unless he's decapitated… and what was that mist rising from the dead body?... centuries of experience… is he the eldest of his – race? … that must be why he keeps his identity a secret... but what is so special about him?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 Vibes…

A lot of why and how accumulated in Sherlock's brain and only the abrupt end of their journey jolted him back into reality. Sherlock paid the cabbie and followed his friend inside a typical town house in Little Venice.

"This looks very… comfortable", Sherlock mused while he scanned the sparse but quaint interior of the apartment.

"It is. Just make yourself at home while I take a shower, right?"

That said, Methos vanished into his room and left the detective alone with his thoughts.

What am I going to do about him? Sherlock thought and threw his coat over an old armchair.

He didn't want the man to disappear, not after what he had witnessed tonight, not after the unexpected information he had been given.

Centuries… Sherlock's mind was still reeling from the sheer impact of the amount of history Benjamin must have lived through as well as from the brutal battle and the beheading he had just witnessed. He had to give the other man some incentive to stay, and he needed more information.

There was something about Benjamin that made his heart jump. He hadn't known such feelings before… well, with one exception, but that had been a dead end…

It didn't matter, Sherlock refused to be apart from the mysterious man who had conquered his carefully guarded emotions so quickly.

And he decided to follow through on his emotions, at least this once…

Little did he know that Benjamin aka Methos was already inclined to remain at Sherlock's side. He was enthralled by the clever human. The old one had rarely met somebody so intelligent and yet so passionate.

The young man possessed an excessive amount of self-confidence, but he also craved honest praise and attention, soaking it up with delight.

In the shower, the ancient man tried to dissipate some of his high strung emotions by nearly scalding his skin with very hot water while he thought about the situation.

Never before in his long existence had Methos seen a human throwing himself into a fight between immortals so recklessly and no matter how furious he had been at the interruption, Sherlock's intervention had clearly given him a healthy advantage.

Those fools had dared to challenge him two on one. Had he been alone, he would have unleashed the old Death and dealt with them properly, but after sensing Sherlock's company he had kept that part of his personality hidden.

Never would he have thought that the young detective actually _knew_ how to handle a sword and much less how to use it properly. Sherlock had fought like a young and inexperienced immortal – and he had won.

Of course he hadn't decapitated his opponent, not knowing that the man would survive the fatal wound.

Well, until tonight Sherlock hadn't known that immortals even existed, and he would never be one of them – Methos could sense that.

It brought forth a protective streak in him which had been buried for a very long time. The tension they both had felt between them from the very beginning had only intensified. Whatever it was, Methos was curious enough to wait and see where it would take them.

Clad in just a towel, he strode back into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.

The young detective lounged on the couch, hands stapled under his chin with eyes closed.

Methos smiled while he walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer. He had seen the man go into this trance-like state more than once, and so his indecisiveness lasted only a few seconds before he plopped down on the couch next to Sherlock's feet.

Methos absolutely felt the need for physical contact and judging by their kissing earlier, Sherlock did too.

"Are you in your mind palace again?" he murmured softly and lifted the other's feet onto his lap. Then he started taking off shoes and socks until he finally gave those graceful feet a tender massage. How can a grown man have such beautiful feet? Methos wondered.

The effect wasn't lost on Sherlock. Soon enough, a tingle in his groin brought the detective back to reality.

"Oh, do keep that up", he sighed and relaxed further into the plush cushions.

Methos chuckled and put his beer on the coffee table. He continued his ministrations, combining soft caresses with his knowledge of pressure points and reduced Sherlock to utter relaxation.

Methos' sensible fingertips felt the thrum of the younger man's energy lines just underneath the skin and his heart nearly skipped a beat from the powerful vibes he was getting.

When his fingers sneaked into the trousers' legs, though, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he raised his head to look at the other man.

"I suppose one has learned quite a bit in such a life-span", he mused before he yawned and stretched himself lazily in a cat-like manner.

"One could say that," Methos replied, mesmerized by the natural grace unfolding before his eyes.

He let his fingers wander once again while the young man watched him through heavily drooped eyelids. "Would you also like to grab a shower?" he asked.

Sherlock pondered on it. He did feel a little grimy after all and his suit had been ruined by the fighting anyway. The cleaner would have a hell of a time with it. Besides that, he needed some space to think.

"Why not", he replied and swung his legs on the floor to get up.

"Alright, towels are in the cupboard", Methos said and watched the detective shedding his clothes save for his briefs on the way to the bathroom.

"Hey, pick that up!" he called after him, but the door was already closed.

With a chuckle, Methos got up and collected the suit and the shirt, tossing them carelessly across a chair. They had a few things in common, obviously.

He briefly contemplated joining Sherlock in the shower, but then he decided to wait. Anticipation was so much more worth it, and the young one might have something different in mind tonight.

Settling on the couch again while nursing his beer, he remembered how he had met the famous consulting detective for the first time…


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Beginnings and a doctor…

Flashback…

 _The seal behind the cabinet glass looked all too familiar to Methos. He knew he had seen it before, thousands of years ago. To be exact, he had owned it back then and it was one of the remnants of his earliest memories._

 _He took a deep breath and squinted his eyes, trying to stop the flood of memories hitting him in the middle of the Sumerian section of the British Museum._

 _Why the hell have I come here? he thought. He should've known that these artefacts would jog his memory wheel._

 _Each and every seal, clay tablet or household item in this exhibition held a meaning for him. He knew exactly what they had been used for. He could still read the writings and put them in their correct context. Something even the best archeologists would never be able to do. They were staggering through the mists of time, only guessing the meaning of what was found in grave sites or destroyed ancient cities._

 _He turned around and decided to leave._

 _Whenever he had come to London over the past few decades, he had paid a visit to the British Museum. As if he **needed** to keep in touch with the memories of his earliest lives … with that thought his resolve faltered for a moment._

 _Methos finally shook it off and walked out of the room._

 _Reaching the exit corridor of the Sumerian part of the exhibition, he saw a crowd of people waiting to be allowed to pass through a barrier that hadn't existed when he had entered this section in the morning. Next to it he saw police officers securing said exit._

 _What the hell is going on here? he thought._

 _Listening to the people around him he gathered that a visitor had collapsed dead in the middle of the hall which connected two parts of the building. Of course, the police was investigating._

 _Interestingly enough, he saw two civilians standing next to the body. One of them was short and of a slightly stocky build, with sandy-blonde hair and a friendly face. He seemed to study the body like a medical examiner would._

 _The other man was quite tall and dressed in a dark coat. Dark curls fell over a pale face as he crouched down and held a magnifying glass above the dead person on the floor.  
_

 _Methos noticed a sort of non-verbal conversation starting between the two men and was mesmerized. They seemed very comfortable, very attuned to each other, moving like a pair._

 _The shorter one finally nodded and they both got up and turned around. Methos' breath caught in his throat._

 _The taller man possessed a kind of sublime beauty with delicately chiseled features. For a few seconds he was captured by those bright blue eyes that also held a slight shade of green in the artificial light of the hall._

 _Heterochromia, Methos' mind prompted._

 _The man caught his gaze, but merely raised an eyebrow while he studied Methos' appearance. Then he turned towards an older grey-haired man, who was obviously one of the investigating officers._

 _Methos averted his gaze and tried to blend back into his surroundings, unobtrusive and unsuspicious like a chameleon._

 _It took a while, but the police finally decided to simply record the personal data of the attendant crowd before letting them go._

 _Still, he observed how the dark-haired man moved around the hall while he scanned each person during their interrogation by the police officers._

 _He's moving gracefully and with purpose, there's not one indecisive motion, Methos thought._

 _If he were an immortal opponent, Methos would have been very cautious, but there was no buzz, not even pre-immortal._

 _He finally reached the end of his line and faced the grey-haired police officer he had seen talking to the interesting stranger. Said man and his companion stood next to the officer and watched him with scrutiny._

 _Methos schooled his features carefully and walked forward._

" _Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Your name and ID, please."_

 _Methos took out his wallet. "My name is Benjamin Pierce. Here", he handed them his passport._

" _You are a U.S. citizen? What are you doing in London?" Lestrade asked._

" _I'm helping on a research project for the Middle East division of the museum", Methos anwered._

 _Lestrade glanced at the passport. "Dr. Pierce… where are you staying?" he asked._

" _At a friend's apartment. Do you need the address?" he tried to be forthcoming._

" _Yes, please. We might need to get back to you for some questions", Lestrade replied._

" _What happened here, Detective Inspector?" Methos questioned out of curiosity._

" _A man was killed in the middle of the exhibition. Where were you an hour ago?" a rich baritone interrupted the inspector and sent a shiver down Methos' spine._

 _What a voice, he thought._

 _"I was in a meeting with the curator of the Mesopotamian exhibition. We were discussing cuneiform translations", he replied._

" _Linear A or B?" the purring baritone inquired with a smirk._

 _Methos raised an eyebrow. This man was not dumb, so he was testing him._

 _"Actually, none of them. The linear scripts were developed much later", he answered and held the piercing gaze of the other man._

" _In ancient Greece", the baritone stated and nodded._

 _Methos saw the shorter man roll his eyes and a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth._

 _"Is that it then, Detective Inspector?" he asked the police officer._

" _Yeah, that's it. Thank you, Dr. Pierce", Lestrade said, a little nonplussed by the exchange._

" _Gentlemen." Methos nodded to the other men and walked past them._

" _What the hell was that about?" he heard the smaller man hiss to the tall one and smiled._

 _The tall man had piqued his curiosity. That voice… and those eyes… Methos sighed inwardly and shrugged off the sentiment. He had no time for another complication in his already turbulent life._

A few days later he had run some errands throughout town and felt as if he was being followed. It turned out that the interesting man had indeed followed him, and he had been very good at it.

Methos smiled fondly at the memory of Sherlock's surprised face when he had deliberately let the man bump into him on the street.

Sherlock had tried to cover up, but in vain. Amused by the man's obvious distress, Methos had invited him to join him for a coffee.

And Sherlock had accepted.

The ancient one had been a bit shell-shocked by Sherlock's revelation that he was working as a consultant detective for the Yard and that he had been gathering information on him for a while to either confirm or rule him out as a suspect.

In the weeks after that, they had a few chance meetings due to Sherlock's work as a consultant detective.

The dead person at the museum had been poisoned and Sherlock was following all kinds of leads.

 **They soon discovered that they got along quite well and decided to meet on purpose. A cup of tea here, a coffee there, fish'n chips while listening to some nerds at Speaker's Corner and finally a professional discourse between academics over dinner on the rooftop terrace of Gabriel's Wharf on Southbank.**

The younger man had been intrigued by the inobtrusive but outstanding intellect Methos presented during conversations and Sherlock had suddenly found himself being drawn to the stranger in a way he couldn't fathom.

Their encounters were against all the rules Sherlock had inflicted upon himself regarding social contact, but he finally had to admit that he would rather risk getting hurt in the process than to abandon this new acquaintance.

And Methos? Methos had done his best to hide his immortal life from his new friend.

It emerged to be a challenge because somehow he ended up seeing Sherlock as someone special, someone he could trust. The man adhered to no standards except his very own and apart from being mortal, Sherlock's demands of himself sometimes easily matched Methos' set of rules.

The old man came to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes would have made a very powerful immortal, but – fortunately for Sherlock and unfortunately for Methos – that was something he would never be.

However, Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's sidekick and blogger, presented a totally different problem.

The former soldier and medical doctor possessed a clarity of mind and a subtle level of insight which Methos had come to meet with unease. The man reminded him of a certain Scot he had been avoiding for the last couple of years.

Methos and Watson had only run into each other once.

Sherlock had asked Methos to accompany him to Baker Street for a cup of tea after some elaborate discussion on bee-keeping in the near park.

Obviously, the young man enjoyed his company very much and they had gotten to a point where the possibility of building a closer relationship might have occurred, if...

 **If** John Watson had not stumbled onto something a psychologist would've described as a situation overloaded with unresolved sexual tension.

Sherlock had been embarrassed that he had been caught showing sentiment.

Methos had kept his usual façade, but a nagging feeling of unease had remained.

John's intense gaze had felt as if the doctor could look right through him and see what was hidden behind his mask.

It had rattled Methos quite a bit and he had avoided coming to Baker Street ever since.

And now this debacle… How was he supposed to explain himself to Sherlock? Methos thought.

And, if he didn't elaborate on his background, how high was the probability that Sherlock would draw wrong conclusions and misunderstand him?

Or worse, if Sherlock would use his skills and connections to gather intelligence about Methos, how much would he be able to find?

Methos knew, he couldn't take the risk.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 It doesn't matter to me…

Meanwhile, in the shower Sherlock tried to regain his composure and make up his mind.

What did he really want from Benjamin? Was it just sex?

He'd had sex with men and women before, out of curiosity. He didn't label himself anything. Sex, no matter with whom, had just been a means to relieve stress.

Sherlock had never invested any emotions – except for that one time that had gone horribly wrong.

So, was he ready to get involved with a man? he asked himself.

No, not just a man – an immortal man! Sherlock still had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that this man could not die… unless he lost his head.

His brain raced, trying in vain to come up with an explanation for this mystery.

Pictures from the fight he had just witnessed haunted his mind. Two men with swords in their hands had teamed up against another man.

Sherlock had followed Benjamin that night, determined to find out what secret he was hiding.

He had waited in the shadows, listened to their conversation.

As shocked as he had been by the revelations, as soon as he realized that Benjamin could possibly lose the fight, he had decided to interfere.

Having taken all kinds of weapon lessons, a fight with a sword seemed easy enough to do and he still had his gun. The latter reinstated a sporting chance.

His opponent, though, had turned out to be an excellent swordsman, but he was driven by sentiment. Sherlock had his own theory about sentiment...

He had to fight dirty in order to win, but he had no qualms doing so. The unusual exertion had left him breathless, and then… then he had to watch Benjamin fight with the other attacker.

A gut wrenching fear that he would _lose_ his friend had churned through his body and scared the shit out of him. This feeling had made it very clear for him that and how much he was emotionally invested in Benjamin.

In the end, his friend had decapitated his opponent while keeping his gaze… he had killed a man before his own eyes…

Sherlock's mind still reeled from the memory of the expression in Benjamin's eyes.

The lightning show afterwards had been a surprise, and had fascinated did all that electric energy come from?

… and then Benjamin had screamed while being hit by the lightning, over and over again… he could still hear it… he shook his head to get rid of the flashback.

Finally, Sherlock finished his shower just when most of the hot water was used up. He toweled himself and put on a bathrobe which hung at the door.

Straightening the collar out of habit, Sherlock caught a whiff of a familiar scent and inhaled deeply while pressing his nose into the soft cloth. It was Benjamin's scent… a little tangy and purely masculine but also clear and fresh like a lush meadow after a short summer rain.

The scent had been ingrained in his memory while sitting next to the other man so many times…

Benjamin, who had been seething with anger after the fight… and who was waiting for him on the couch, nearly naked...

And Sherlock suddenly knew exactly what he wanted from Benjamin tonight.

He tore himself out of his reverie and walked back into the living room where he stopped dead in his tracks.

The immortal lay sprawled on the couch as if his long limbs possessed some extra joints. The towel was slung loosely around the hips, nearly exposing his most interesting parts.

Nursing a bottle of beer, the other man seemed completely oblivious to the effect his display had on the detective.

With only a slight hesitation, Sherlock advanced the couch and plopped down next to the ancient one.

"Want one too?" Methos waved the bottle at Sherlock but he declined.

"No, thanks, I don't drink", he replied.

The ancient one raised himself up, clearly surprised. "Not ever?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Did once for experimental reasons. Made a mess out of this." He whirled his finger next to his right temple.

Methos chuckled. "Yeah, it does sometimes. But it's good if you want to … forget about things." His voice became wistful.

"Drugs are more effective", Sherlock replied.

The old man scrutinized him. "You tried?" he inquired.

Sherlock held his gaze and nodded. "A couple of times."

Methos could sense that the younger man expected judgement and rejection, but he was far from complying. Hell, there had been times when he too had been high as a kite, and not just for a few days.

He just shrugged and pointed at the beer bottle. "Well, at least _this_ is less lethal." With a grin he took another healthy swig and put the bottle down on the coffee table.

Sherlock couldn't help a smirk. "Guess you must have acquired the taste somewhere along the way", he replied, and he got the response he had hoped for.

"Ah, here we go with the questions. I suppose you have a few, yeah?" Methos retorted with an equal smirk on his chiseled face.

Well, two can play at this, Sherlock thought.

"I could be the one asking, but I'd rather hear what you are willing to enlighten me about", the detective answered.

He was a master at reading between the lines and there was probably more information in what Benjamin would keep to himself than in what he was willing to share.

"This could take the whole night, even if I keep it short", the immortal answered.

Sherlock wasn't ready to give up. "I've got time", he returned and settled deeper into the cushions.

"First of all, whatever I tell you now cannot ever leave this room, understood?"

Sherlock nodded. "I already deduced that you have a good reason to keep your real identity hidden", he replied.

Methos grinned. "And yet you sought to unveil my secret. Curiosity is good for learning, but it _can_ kill you."

Sherlock just shrugged. "No risk, no fun." He remembered a few of his own secrets.

Methos laughed and started his explanation. "Okay, there are people in this world who are born immortal, and I'm one of them. With our first violent death, we remain frozen at that age. After that we cannot die unless we're beheaded. Some of us fight to acquire the life force of others – the lightning show you've seen, which we call quickening – some fight only if necessary in order to survive. The older an immortal gets, the more energy is accumulated, either by age or successful beheadings. And you've heard about the prime rule – it's always one on one combat."

Sherlock's brain sponged everything up with amazement.

"But _why_ all that? How did it start and what is the purpose?" He couldn't contain his questions.

Methos shrugged. "That is beyond my knowledge. Rumour is that in the end of it all there can only be one survivor who gets a 'prize' – whatever that may be. I'm not even sure that a person who knows all the answers exists at all."

Sherlock frowned. "But then… it may all be a hoax. There might be nothing in the end and the only purpose all those fights served is the extinction of your kind."

Methos took a deep breath. "That may be true", he replied, "but unless all immortals stop fighting…", he shrugged.

Sherlock understood. "The game will continue."

Methos nodded. In Sherlock's eyes he could see comprehension of the heavy load he was carrying on his shoulders.

"So… how long have you been around then?" The detective silently hoped for more information.

The old man pondered on how to answer. He trusted Sherlock. And then decided to go for the truth.

"I am supposedly the oldest of our kind, though I don't remember when or where exactly I was born. Things like this weren't exactly recorded back then. I only know that it was somewhere in the middle-east, probably in early Sumer." Methos glanced wistfully down on his hands.

Sherlock's brain raced as he did the maths – five-thousand years? He gasped with shock.

"Wait a moment – you are… more than _five-thousand_ years old?" Sherlock's eyes nearly bulged.

Methos nodded. "Give or take a few centuries, yes. Anyway, regarding beer…" he pointed to the bottle on the table. "I was probably born around the time it was invented."

The younger man let a low whistle and shook his head wistfully. "No wonder you don't mind fighting, or dying."

"No!" Methos replied and sat up.

"I may have died countless times and in many ways. You could say that I'm used to it, but do I _want_ to die?" He shook his head.

"Not really, to be honest. There's always something worth to live for", the old man added with a smirk, patting the younger man's knee reassuringly.

Sherlock didn't know if he should be flattered or having a heart-attack. How could one _live_ like this?

"I presume, visiting the British Museum feels like … coming home?" Sherlock inquired.

Methos' eyes darkened a bit, but he nodded. "There are countless stories about a lot of items there, but…", he stopped and exhaled shakily.

The younger man scrutinized him.

He looks haunted, Sherlock thought. No wonder after a life that long. "Too many unpleasant memories?" he murmured.

A sharp nod. "Times weren't exactly civilized back then", Methos replied and his gaze lost its focus again.

"I've lived many different lives, and I've killed many people ... I did what I had to do to stay alive. Often things ended in a blood bath – that's how times were back then. But then, there were also peaceful periods, at least a handful of them…" His voice drifted down to a whisper.

Methos didn't know why he was suddenly feeling the full weight of his long life, or why he was telling this youngling all this instead of being his usual cynical self.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked at it.

"Don't go there."

Methos raised his head and locked eyes with the man next to him. The face before him held a neutral yet compassionate expression.

"It doesn't matter to me what you've done or who you've been."

The words were spoken with such a confidence that Methos really wanted to believe them.

However, he knew that after events like tonight, such confessions were often related to the level of adrenalin still coursing through the blood.

"You wouldn't say that if you knew more", Methos said softly.

Sherlock smiled. "I don't think so."

He felt heat rising inside him under the piercing gaze of the older man. His hand seemed warm on the cool skin of the other's forearm, even though he could sense the warmth the body next him was emanating.

Sherlock swallowed nervously before he started to caress the skin beneath his fingertips very slowly.

The sudden change in Methos' gaze was astonishing. Green irises with a small hazel ring around each pupil turned into dark-green pools.

Arousal, Sherlock's mind prompted. He was curious and let his fingertips slide down to the pulse point on Methos' wrist. Accelerated, very much so, Sherlock noticed excitedly.

But the old man knew exactly what the young detective was doing and changed the grip by turning his hand, measuring Sherlock's pulse instead.

"Widened pupils, quick pulse… what a simple deduction", Methos said, amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Sherlock blushed profoundly. The atmosphere in the room changed from one moment to the other.

"Tell me, young Sherlock…", Methos rose to his knees on the couch, "what other deductions can you make about me?" the old man purred and Sherlock suddenly found himself being advanced by a dangerously seductive animal in human form.

He involuntarily scrabbled backwards, but Methos was faster and pinned him down by straddling him.

Mesmerized by the pure arousal on the older man's face, Sherlock found himself stammering like a schoolboy.

"I… um, you're… you're dangerous … and a… a deadly fighter."

Methos stopped dead in his tracks.

This only encouraged the younger man. "You keep your real identity a secret because you enjoy life too much… but that wasn't always the case."

The old immortal froze inwardly. "Not bad", he said, keeping a bland face.

"I wasn't finished yet", Sherlock continued and sensing he was getting the upper hand, he sat up.

"There are things in your past you think will lead everyone to reject you. In fact, you've already experienced it", he explained.

"You don't know what you're talking about", Methos replied, his expression shutting down.

Defence mechanism, Sherlock thought.

"Oh, but I know how it _feels_ ", he returned and raised a hand.

Methos grabbed his wrist before he could touch the ancient's face.

"I'm not a damsel in distress", Methos sneered.

Sherlock grinned widely. "No."

He shook his head. " _You_ ", he wrestled his hand free and changed the grip, tugging Methos toward him _,_ "are like a big cat, barely tamed by culture. Like a chameleon you ride through the times, always adapting for your ultimate goal."

Nose to nose they sat close now.

"Which would be?" Methos growled.

"Survival", Sherlock breathed and closed the small gap with a kiss.

His lips sought Methos' lips and with a smile he felt the old man's arms wrapping around his body.


End file.
